


never let you go

by bitsandbobsandstuff



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Supernatural, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bottom Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Dark!Bucky, Dark!Steve, Demons Are Assholes, F/M, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Supernatural Elements, Threesome - F/M/M, Top Bucky Barnes, crossover fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2020-11-07 13:13:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20817857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitsandbobsandstuff/pseuds/bitsandbobsandstuff
Summary: After losing the woman they love, Bucky and Steve make a desperate decision with unimaginable consequences.





	1. Crossroad Blues

Looking back, it happened so fast.

Night was stealing over the horizon when the mission was officially called. Bad guys in handcuffs, team members safe, the world still turning. On the roof of a nearby office building, you stood between Bucky and Steve, smiling in relief.

Smiling, smiling, smiling.

You were smiling right before the bomb went off.

Later, Bucky remembers the shock on your face, the shape of Steve’s mouth screaming. He remembers that swoop in his belly, the weightless feel of wild loops on a rollercoaster. He remembers your piercing cry as the floor gave way beneath three pairs of boots, bodies knocking together in a choking sea of crumbling concrete and screeching steel.

And when the smoke cleared, when your broken fingers found his and Bucky saw your lips stained with sticky red, he knew instantly. He knew and he knew _you_ knew. You’d seen enough injuries to recognize death when it beckons. Steve was shouting, clambering over a broken wall, fighting through piles of debris to where you lay pinned beneath the unforgiving stone. He collapsed beside you, trembling soot-smudged fingers cupping your face.

No more than a minute passed. Sixty short seconds of breaking and bleeding and screaming, now stretching into an unending lifetime of regret. One minute more, before your small sips of breath slow into nothing. They stay with you until the end, each with their hands on you, comforting and pleading to _stay, please stay, we love you, please don’t leave_.

But Death cares little for love.

When they emerged from the ruins, Steve carried your broken body, Bucky staggering numbly behind. The world shifts.

Three days later, comes the funeral. Black suits, black dresses, black casket. A rainbow of flowers for a life overflowing with love and laughter. The formalities of grief are observed, those unfailingly dependable motions polite society demands.

Steve, ever the stalwart public figure, does most of the work. Shaking hands and speaking quietly and nodding gravely at words of condolence. On the fringes of the crowd, away from the crush of sympathy Bucky stands pale and hidden. Despite concern and questions, not a single word has passed his lips since that day.

Finally it ends, the last well-wisher is whisked into the night, and they’re left alone. Two men shattered by tragedy, hearts burning with a soul consuming love for a woman they couldn’t save.

Before a crackling fire, Steve sits slumped in your favorite chair. Cocooned in silent misery, red-rimmed eyes wide and unseeing, he holds a heavy crystal tumbler loose in his hand.

When he sucks in a sharp, strangled breath, Bucky looks over.

The tumbler slips from Steve’s hand, bouncing soundlessly on the plush grey rug and he stands quickly, stumbling toward the fireplace. The flames are strangely welcoming, translucent beams of fractured light breaking through the room.

“Get it off,” he suddenly chokes out. Panic bleeds off him in waves, and he yanks at his tie. The knot tightens and Steve begins to sweat, voice rising higher. “Get it off, _now_, get it off, get it all off! Please! _Please Bucky_, _please_!”

Startled, Bucky leaps up. He pulls the jacket down Steve’s flailing arms and watches in confusion as Steve strips off the rest.

Tie, shirt, belt.

Trousers, boxers, socks.

Ripping the jacket dangling from Bucky’s fingers, Steve rolls everything into a ball and shoves it into the fireplace. Flames lick along his hands, instantly scalding his fingertips with angry red blisters, but he pays no attention. The fire is quick to take, wrapping everything in ringlets of blue and orange, greedily devouring the gift.

As he stands naked in the living room, Steve begins to shiver.

“I don’t know if I can - can do this. Heartache is one thing, but this…this is _worse_.” he gasps. He crouches on the floor, puts his head between his knees. “This is worse, this is - this is fu-fucking _worse_.”

Shadows dance through the room while the fire consumers the remnants of the funeral suit. Good riddance of course. There’s no way on earth he’d wear those clothes again.

The wet, broken rasp of Steve’s sobs are the only sound in the room. Bucky wants to help, but there’s nothing left inside him. No reassurances, no words of relief. The solace of love that filled their home has evaporated, leaving nothing more than a wisp of memory.

*****

Their world ends, but as always, the days go by…

*****

One morning Bucky wakes up, head still full of foggy dreams. Lost happiness. He comes awake slowly, bleary eyed and so painfully hard he’s ashamed of that fact.

He sets the shower to a burning rain and stands under the deluge. Closes his eyes and lets the heat sear his skin to a sheet of bright red, trying desperately to wash away those heartbreaking dreams of you, safe and perfect in his arms. He palms himself roughly at the thought, trying to ease the ache. There’s a feeling of disgust that accompanies the touch, humiliated frustration at such a base instinct.

He tells himself he can finish it quick, make it go away. Take the edge off.

With one wet hand on slippery tile, he wraps the other around himself and jerks. He hates himself for picturing you. Beautiful lips, beautiful skin, beautiful eyes. The sound of your voice hitching, sweet sighs of pleasure when he touches your body.

He tells himself the water sluicing down his face is the shower. He tells himself he’s _fine_. This is stress relief. Something to relax. But when he comes all over his hand, his knees buckle and Bucky collapses, crumpling to a ball on the floor of the cavernous shower. Staring up at the ceiling, the water pelts his face until the burning heat turns icy cold.

The dampness on his face, is the shower. They are not tears. He is fine.

That’s what he tells himself, anyway.

*****

One evening, Steve takes a drive.

Out of Manhattan, past the safe lights of suburbia, further north until he hits the solitude of wilderness. He drives until he finds the path he knows, bumping over gnarled roots, wheels grinding pathetically in the silent night. When it ends, he gets out and continues on foot. Pushing through a dense copse of trees, swiping away the sharp branches reaching for him. He walks and walks, until he reaches what he needs.

Moonlight bathes the small clearing in a white glow, and he walks forward until he’s in the middle of the tranquil space. Cold dew soaks into his jeans when he kneels in the stubby grass, but he doesn’t notice. Tipping his head back, he looks up at the stars.

He screams. On and on and _on_, the sounds echoing back at him, reverberating off the wall of trees, sending sleeping birds into screeching flight. He screams and he screams, rage and grief and the raw devastation of heartbreak so potent he nearly faints. He screams when he remembers the tears in your eyes silently begging for help, and he screams at the impotence of knowing he could do nothing but watch your life bleed away. He screams for himself, for Bucky, for _you_. Steve screams until his voice is gone, until the soft tissue inside his throat is swollen and shredded and he spits up blood.

And then he staggers to his feet, pushing back through the trees, until he reaches his car. He climbs inside and turns for home.

He comes back the next night. And the one after that.

Again, and again, and again. Step and repeat.

*****

…and the lonely days melt into weeks…

*****

Neither man is deemed fit for combat, both stripped of duties and relegated to wait. _Recover_, the therapists say. _Rest and recover. Work will always be there. Wait it out, until you feel normal._

Bucky punches a hole through their front door at the condescending support. As if he could _wait it out_. As if that’s a real _thing_. As if this grief will ever do anything but grind his heart to mush.

Instead of avenging, they pass the time with mundane things. Searching for purpose, finding none.

In the middle of a stormy night, with the world asleep in their beds, they find themselves in an empty gym. Sweat slick fists and knees jabbing, punching, kicking, sparing with vicious intensity. The pace is blindingly fast, sharply efficient. Back and forth they move, a deadly dance that temporarily takes their minds away from the present, from that gaping loss that will never heal.

On and on they move, until Bucky sweeps his leg and Steve misses the jump. He tumbles to the ground, and Bucky pins him neatly against the mat. Breathing hard, Steve stares up, anguish turning him inside out. He opens his mouth and Bucky already knows what’s coming.

“Steve,” he warns.

“I miss her,” Steve whispers. Misery coats the words, sticky with despair.

“Stop,” Bucky snaps. He scrambles to his feet, turns toward the door. “Don’t you fucking do this, I _told_ you we ain’t talking about it.”

Steve climbs sluggishly to his feet. He rubs his eyes, feels the burn of pooling tears. It’s so natural these days, that prickling heat. Looking up, he sees the tense muscles in Bucky’s hunched shoulders, and he can’t stop from asking.

“Do you - do you remember when it was just the two of us? When we were enough?” he asks hoarsely, and Bucky whips around. Rushing Steve, he catches him around the waist and slams him against the padded blue wall. There’s a faint whir of shifting plates and a metal fist pounds the mat, an inch from Steve’s tear-streaked cheek. He doesn’t even flinch, staring bleakly at the rage in Bucky’s face.

Without missing a beat, Bucky grabs a handful of sweaty shirt and hauls him forward, a furious snarl preceding a bruising kiss. Steve goes easily, their lips moving in a violent rhythm against each other.

When Bucky breaks away, he spins Steve around, shoves him face first against the wall. Without a word, he yanks down Steve’s shorts and kicks his feet apart. This is the first time they’ve touched each other since that day, and the intimacy that blooms is brutal.

Rough thrusts. Quiet grunts. Sex is a race to the finish, both betting on themselves and doing everything in their power to win. Bucky fucks into him, hips snapping recklessly, and Steve wraps a hand around himself, jerking quickly. No more than a minute later and it’s over, tempers cooling like the shimmering film of sweat on their skin.

Panting harshly against Steve’s neck, Bucky answers the question, his voice hollow.

“Yeah I remember. Doesn’t matter. We won’t be again.”

*****

…on and on it goes, until weeks blur into months.

*****

Time passes, but there is no movement for them. Every step forward comes with five steps back, regressing into a despair with no end in sight. How can you hope to move on, when the best part of yourself is lost, gone, rotting away in a white marble mausoleum in a Brooklyn cemetery?

How the _fuck_ can you survive, when the light you’ve been living for goes out?

Lying in bed one cold October night, these are the thoughts traipsing through Steve’s head. Beside him, Bucky is wrapped in an old blanket, unwashed hair fanning in dark tangles across his pillow, and for a long time, Steve watches him. He knows when the nightmares arrive. Bucky begins to shake, soft sounds slipping through clenched teeth, whimpers of a cornered dog with no way out. Steve reaches for him.

At the pressure on his arm, Bucky wakes with a strangled moan. Kicking away the blanket, he sits up, twisting to look at Steve. Sweat pours down his face, until Steve looks closer and understands.

Tears.

Chest heaving, Bucky glares at him.

“_No_, god dammit, fucking - _fuck you_,” he spits out, choked by tears. “I told you not to wake me up, _never wake me up_. She was _there_, I almost had her, she was - she was _there_, I could’ve - “

Shaking furiously, he scrambles out of bed, dragging the blanket behind him. Moments later, Steve flinches when the bathroom door slams so hard, the walls of their apartment shake.

The thought comes again. When every shred of hope is abandoned, when the devils of despair are hungering for your sanity, what can you possibly do? How can you go on?

There in that room, rising from the depths of hell, an idea comes.

Shadowy images fill his head, blurry mission reports and hazy pictures. A thick binder with a peculiar collection of information, full of monsters and demons and evil that goes bump in the night. Scary stories he and Bucky read as kids, huddled together under his bedspread.

Steve thinks of SHIELD letterhead and a list of names with an unfamiliar title.

_Hunters_, he thinks. _The word ‘Hunters’ was typed at the top of that list._

He gets an idea. Steve gets a terrible, horrible, _beautiful_ idea.

*****

North of Chicago, in a greasy diner rank with the sour scent of body odor, four men are squeezed into a red booth. The cracked vinyl is peeling away in places, sharp edges revealing yellowed stuffing and frayed threads, and when Bucky lays his arm across the back, it pinches his skin. Beside him, Steve sits stiffly, hands folded next to a chipped ceramic mug of lukewarm coffee.

Hunched across from them, shoveling syrup-soaked pancakes in his mouth, Dean Winchester thumbs over his shoulder at the chalkboard sign above the counter.

“Pig ’N a Poke. Always good.”

No one responds. An awkward silence blankets the uncomfortably full booth, until Bucky clears his throat.

“So you two -“ he motions between the two men, “you’re, what? Together?”

Swearing under his breath, Dean rolls his eyes and keeps eating. “Why the _hell_ does everyone ask that? _No_. We’re _brothers_. God damn.”

Crammed beside Dean, Sam Winchester observes the two super soldiers. Toying with the edge of his coffee cup, he fixes them with a thoughtful stare.

“Sorry we dodged your calls, we uh, we try to stay away from SHIELD,” he says wryly. “Not much good ever comes from it.”

“Yeah, last time we got involved, you dicks got my car impounded,” Dean pipes up, spraying bits of pancake across the table. Fixing him with a dark glare, Bucky slowly wipes it off his cheek. Dean grins.

Ignoring the exchange, Steve leans forward, gripping the coffee cup to steady his nervous hands. He takes a deep breath.

“We won’t say anything. SHIELD can’t know we’re here. I read a report about - about something that happened. About something you did. It said - “ He pauses, debating his next words. They tumble out in a rush of breath. “It said you know how to make deals. With certain kinds of - people. The kind of deals that need to stay off the radar.”

Everyone in the cramped booth freezes. The pancake laden fork briefly hovers in midair, before clattering to the table.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Steve gathers himself and tips his chin up.

“Not even a little.”

Dean leans back. Eyes flitting between the two men, perhaps gauging their sanity. It takes a full minute before he speaks.

“Man, you fucking superheroes are something else, you know that? I don’t know what you read in that report you found _Captain_, but you think there’s something you need that’s worth an eternity _literally_ burning in hell? Is that what I’m hearing?”

Neither answers immediately. Bucky looks aside, out the dust smeared window, to the black Impala parked in front. He wonders briefly where the Winchesters found it. He always wanted one.

“We lost someone.”

At Steve’s quiet admission, Bucky turns back with a ferociously defiant expression and Sam’s eyes soften.

“Yeah. We heard about that. I’m sorry.”

Steve acknowledges the condolence with a stiff nod, while Bucky schools his face into a blank mask. Looking between the two men, Dean takes a deep breath.

“Listen, I’m sorry about what happened, I really am. But I’m not gonna sugar coat this for you. My suggestion? Get some god damn therapy and figure out how to _move on_. Me and Sammy, we’ve both been down there and this isn’t some bullshit scare tactic, or some ghost story you heard in Sunday school. This is fucking _real_. And it doesn’t end. Ever. This is forever. _Hell is forever_. Do you get that?”

“I know a thing or two about hell,” Bucky says drily, taking a sip of coffee. He feels a funny lurch in his belly when Dean levels him with a pitying stare.

“No. You don’t.”

Arms crossed on the flaking linoleum table, Bucky sits forward. “Listen kid, I’m under no illusions about my future. All the shit I’ve done, every crime, every murder, you think I don’t know where I’m ending up? No amount of heavenly forgiveness is gonna take that away. This ends bloody for me no matter what path I choose. So, enlighten me here. Why the hell shouldn’t I make it count?”

Silence hangs over the table. Beside him, Bucky feels Steve’s hand on his thigh, a comforting squeeze. He understands. For all Steve’s comments about the past not being Bucky’s fault, of course he considered this outcome.

Across the table, Sam quietly clears his throat, murmuring low.

“Dean -”

“No, this is horseshit and you know it. You can’t - “ he stops when he seems the firm resolve on both faces. And honestly? Dean Winchester has been a lost cause often enough to recognize a case when he sees one. “Fine then. If you boys do this, that’s it. There’s no going back. You understand that? You are _on your own._ We can’t save you.”

“Yes,” Steve grits out. “We understand.”

“No, I don’t think you do. You make a deal like this and that’s it. There’s no get out of jail. Hell comes calling and that bitch’ll rip you limb from limb, before she drags you to rot down below.”

The words have no effect. Steve peers sideways at Bucky and finds him perfectly relaxed.

“We appreciate the concern. But we’re good.”

Mumbling all manner of obscenities under his breath, Dean digs inside his jacket until he finds a small yellow notepad and a dull pencil. Slapping it on the table, he writes. List, instructions, locations. He rips the paper out and flings it at Steve.

“This is on your heads.”

Nodding his thanks, Steve folds the paper and tucks it carefully in his pocket. The broken leather of the booth creaks and squeaks as he exits, Bucky sliding out behind him.

Side by side, they look down at the Winchester brothers. All four men have been perpetually hounded by some form of death their entire lives. It seems inevitable they would meet before the end.

Offering a faint smile, Bucky shrugs.

“Haven’t you ever loved someone so much, you’d move heaven and earth to bring them back?”

*****

Under the full moon, Steve cracks the small tin box for one final look.

A polaroid of him and Bucky. A clear glass vial of graveyard dirt from a small plot in Brooklyn. The leg bone from a black cat, a stray they saw skulking in an alley; Steve had caught it and did the dirty work there. Bucky always was a bleeding heart when it came to animals.

Crouched in the dead center of the crossroad, Bucky carves out a small hole with smooth metal fingers. When Steve hands him the box, he places it carefully, angling it just right.

Piling the dirt back over, Bucky pats it down and stands, legs suddenly shaky, heart hammering in fear. Dusting off his hands, he edges closer to Steve.

“Now what?”

Steve says nothing. He stares at the stalks of yellow flowers lining the road, waving gently in the night air, and the innocuous sight sends a shiver rippling down his spine.

“Well, well, well. Two super soldiers? This is one _hell_ of a surprise.”

The voice is soft, gentle. Musical in a way, like windchimes on a sunny day or the faint hum of birds warbling in the morning.

It turns their blood to ice.

Both men whirl simultaneously, discovering a woman standing behind them. Dressed in a wispy white dress, dark hair falls in thick waves down her back, bottle green eyes framed by long lashes. When she smiles, a dimple appears.

Beautiful. Ethereal. The kind of woman who could lure a man into anything.

She blinks. Shining in the moonlight, the green disappears and another color slides in place. Sickeningly bright, hot as fire.

_Red_.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve hisses, stumbling back a step back and she laughs.

“No, I’m afraid not.”

Beside him, Bucky feels Steve trembling, and he reaches for his hand, tangling their fingers together. The gesture fills them both with a renewed courage, and Steve clears his throat.

“We want to - we need - we need to make a deal. There’s someone. We need to bring someone back. To life.”

She whistles, long and low. “Hmm. That’s a tall order boys. I’ll need something good to make this worth my while.”

“The deal is 10 years, right?” Steve motions between him and Bucky. “We each get 10 years, and then - then -“ he trips over the words, unable to finish the grisly statement. Amused, she lets him flounder. “Then we’re - then we’ll go.”

“Normally yes. Those are the standard terms, but for you two? I don’t know. Feels like I could get myself in trouble for taking from such - _virile_ specimens.”

“But we _want_ to deal,” Steve argues.

The white dress flows like water as she strolls forward. Stopping before them, she trails a finger down Bucky’s silver arm, and he shudders.

“Maybe we could come to a different arrangement. If you’re interested.”

“Like what?”

“Well boys, I think you might be worth far more above ground than below. So how about this.” Green eyes gleaming, Bucky has the gruesome sense of a spider moving silently along her web, stalking two struggling flies. “I know who you want, and I’ll bring her back, safe and sound. Deliver her right to your door, and both of you stay up here. Souls intact. For one tiny price.”

Too good to be true. Far too good. Bucky waits for the pin to drop.

“What tiny price?” he breathes.

She answers.

Still clasping hands, Bucky feels cold sweat slicking Steve’s palm. Is this right? Can they really do this? The offer is tantalizing, another level of evil they have yet to fully comprehend. But Bucky knows his mind, what he’s willing to give, and he knows Steve feels the same.

There is no question.

“Deal.”

“Takes a kiss to seal it,” she whispers. Moving close, she curls a hand behind Steve’s neck and pulls his face down. Eyes squeezed shut, mouth drawn in a tight line, he waits it out, a full body shiver rattling his tall frame. Her fingers run through his sweaty blond hair, and he feels sick to his stomach at the way her fingernails scratch so invitingly along his scalp. When she’s had enough, she breaks away in a huff of feigned disappointment.

“Less than inspiring Captain.” Turning to Bucky, she offers a sly smile. “How about you, _Soldier_? Got anything better?”

Bucky steels himself, as she rises on her toes and presses her mouth to his. He keeps his eyes open, staring forward, and lets her have the kiss, feels her run her tongue along the seam of his lips, a brazen request for more. Parting his lips, he tastes the cloyingly sweet scent of her breath, feels her rub against him, the cool damp of her tongue licking along his teeth.

Forcing himself to disconnect from the moment, he wonders how a kiss can feel so utterly wrong. He wants to turn heel and run, but he’s suddenly and overwhelmingly terrified she might rescind the deal. That she might snatch this burgeoning hope from their begging hands and return to her corner of hell.

So, he lets her have the kiss. Right now, the hideous truth is that he’d give her anything she asked, if it meant he gets you back.

Finally she pulls away, running her fingers down his chest.

“Much better. Now - kiss each other.” Confused, they look at each other and back to her. The seriousness of the request fades and she laughs. “_Kidding_. Two pretty boys like you, how can I help myself?”

Stepping back, her eerily musical laughter still dancing on the wind, she vanishes.

The night is silent.

Bucky staggers to the yellow flowers and vomits all over them.

*****

Driving along the lonely stretch of highway, they sit in silence. Each wrestling with newfound demons, now more than metaphorical.

“Do you think it worked?” Steve asks, voice hushed and rough.

Bucky stares straight ahead, watching the night zip by, illuminated asphalt between twin beams of light. He says nothing.

*****

Their front door still has a patch on the outside, where Bucky slammed his fist through the wood. It swings quietly when Steve pushes it open, clicking on the hall light. They drop their bags in the entry, walking through the dark apartment.

“But when would we know, that’s what I don’t -“

Steve stops so abruptly, Bucky trips into him from behind.

“Dammit Steve, what - “

In the armchair by the window, sits a familiar silhouette. Barefoot, wearing a long-sleeved blue t-shirt and jeans, she turns to face them.

Shocked silence billows out, thick and bottomless. There’s a strangled gasp and Steve flings out an arm, blocking Bucky from running at you.

“Wait,” he hisses, “Buck, just - just _wait_.”

Bewildered, you watch their cautious movements, small shuffles inching closer. When they’re two feet away, Steve stops them again.

“Hold out your hand,” he whispers raggedly, and you stare in confusion. He shakes his head, still holding Bucky back with one arm and motions for your hand. Extending it slowly, you offer it palm up. Steve fishes out a small bottle from his pocket, trembling fingers flipping the lid, and with a deep breath, he splashes holy water all over your hand.

He cringes, waiting.

Nothing.

Staring curiously at the innocent water droplets, you look up.

“Steve, what is this? What’s happening?”

At the sound of your exhausted voice, a broken howl rips from Bucky’s throat and he barrels past Steve. Falling at your feet, he wraps his arms tight around your waist and buries his face against your belly, his shoulders shaking with the hurricane force of his wrenching sobs. Gentle fingers comb through his tangled hair, while you calm him with meaningless words, the soothing syllables priceless simply because they’re _yours_.

Over the sound of Bucky’s tears, Steve comes closer. He traces the curves of your face, over your forehead, down your nose, brushing your lips. _It worked_, he thinks, and fierce relief sweeps through him. Wrapping an arm around your shoulders, he presses his mouth to your temple, inhaling the clean scent of your skin.

“Welcome home, sweetheart.”

*****

For the next three days, you do nothing but sleep. Small breaks between sleep and awake to eat the chicken noodle soup Bucky brings, the pastrami sandwich Steve cuts into small squares, a chocolate chip cookie fresh from the oven.

At first, they worry. Did they fuck up the deal? Was something else wrong? Were you sick? Eventually, they understand coming back to life is not as simple as waking up and picking up where you left off.

So, they let you sleep, drawing the bedroom curtains into darkness, fluffing up the pillows whenever you stumble to the bathroom, keeping the glass on the nightstand filled with cool water. They linger outside the bedroom door, propped against the wall and watching each other, impatiently patient.

In the middle of the night on the fourth day, Bucky jolts awake. Sleepy and befuddled, his heart sinks. Was it another dream? His mind playing tricks? Listening, he waits and waits and _waits_, and suddenly, he hears it again.

No, this is not a dream. This is _real_.

He hears you calling.

“Bucky? Steve?”

Scrambling to his feet, he kicks Steve awake and drags him up. Together, they crack open the bedroom door, a dim sliver of hall light illuminating the sight. There you are, curled in a ball along the edge of the bed.

“Hey,” you whisper hoarsely, pulling the blanket tighter. They creep closer, kneeling together beside the bed to look in your eyes.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Bucky says softly. “Did you need something?”

The question comes with such tenderness, your heart swells. What you needed, was to ask them what happened. What did they do? How did it happen? _What did it cost_? You know the grim reality of whatever magic they used to bring you back will have consequences. Selfish magic always does.

These are the things you should ask, the things you need to know. But in this moment, with these two extraordinary men watching you with such breathless reverence, the intensity of a different emotion strikes like lightning. It surges through your veins, a liquid fire craving to _feel_ them, inside and out.

Nothing else matters. The truth can wait.

“Can you do something for me?” you whisper instead.

“_Anything_,” he breathes instantly, Steve nodding helpfully.

“Can you kiss me?” you whisper and Bucky blinks, surprised. Glancing at Steve, he hesitates briefly, before leaning forward and placing a chaste kiss on your lips. He tastes soft, a faint hint of minty toothpaste on his breath.

When he breaks away, you slip a hand behind his neck. He swallows hard at feel of your fingers digging into his skin and leans helplessly into the touch.

“Honey - “ he starts, but you cut him off.

“Kiss me again. Mean it this time.”

At your demand, dark lust fills his face. Eyes flicking back and forth, he appears to gauge the request, making absolutely sure you’re sure, and then -

He _devours_ you.

Shoving you back into the mess of pillows, he climbs onto the bed, mouth slanting hungrily over yours. Teeth bumping, tongue sliding along yours, he holds your face between his palms, damp skin and cool metal. He kisses so long and deep, so thorough and full of passion, it leaves you gasping for air.

“Better?” he murmurs, and for the first time since the day you died, since that moment your soul flew beyond his reach, the faint flicker of a smile tugs his lips.

The kiss does nothing to calm the tide. It makes your skin sizzle, lust sweeping through your body.

“I need you. _Both_ of you. Please,” you breathe, tugging frantically at your shirt, a feverish desperation for the blazing heat of their skin against yours.

“Are you sure?” Steve asks hoarsely, blunt tipped fingers gripping your hip so tight you feel a bruise already forming. There is no pain though, only the comforting pressure of intimate familiarity. “We don’t have to do anything, not yet, not - not _ever_.”

“Please,” you plead again. “_Please_. It’s been so long, I _missed_ you, don’t - don’t let me leave you, _please_ Steve, please don’t let me go again.”

At your tearful words, Steve genuinely believes he feels his heart break. All he knows, all he will ever know again, is a burning need to fix this. To keep you and Bucky safe from everything, no matter the cost.

“Never. Never again,” he vows, and beside him, Bucky echoes the promise.

“Never, sweetheart. We’ll never let you go.”

The simplicity of a remembered intimacy comes naturally. Steve settles against the headboard and pulls you between his legs, tossing away your shirt and peppering kisses across your back, over your shoulders, up your neck. Wide hands stroke up along your ribcage, cupping your breasts. It makes you twitch when he gently pinches your nipples, teeth nipping at your ear.

Bucky slides your panties off and settles between your legs, easing them open. Warm breath brushes over your clit and then he licks a firm strip between your folds. At your low moan, he slowly pushes two fingers inside you, twisting and rubbing until sparks crackle along your skin.

“Keep going, oh god, keep going.”

Bracketed between Steve’s thighs, one hand tangled in Bucky’s dark hair, your hips push up to meet every stroke of his tongue, writhing as he holds you down. Steve’s hands are ceaseless, rubbing your breasts, circling your nipples, tugging lightly as he leaves small bites along your neck.

“There you go baby, that’s it,” he whispers. “Keep watching him, don’t look away.”

Eyes on the ceiling, you force yourself to look down, at the man nestled snug between your legs. His dark hair falls over his forehead, blue eyes burning you to ash.

“Bucky,” you rasp, powerless against the onslaught of pleasure, “_Steve_. _Please_.”

The sound of his name falling from your lips, something he _never_ expected to hear again, sends Bucky into a frenzy. Tongue flicking faster, he pumps his fingers harder, the vibration from his moan pulsing against your clit and everything shatters.

Arching up, the orgasm crests and breaks, white noise blanking your mind. Incoherent cries fill your ears, over and over, until you recognize the sound of your own voice, a repetitious prayer crafted from the only three words that will ever matter.

_Bucky._

_Steve._

_Please._

They answer, of course. In perfect fashion, with perfect rhythm.

Steve pulls your boneless, shuddering body higher, and Bucky opens your legs wider, letting Steve ease into your pussy from behind. He groans at the feel, the silky wet heat gripping him, and clutches your back tight to his chest. Rocking his hips up, he moves your body easily, thrusting deep. The delicious sound of his soft grunts fill your ear and it reignites the throbbing ache between your legs.

Bucky crawls up until he straddles you both, his tongue curling around your nipple, licking, sucking, tugging delicately with his teeth. He frees your hand, the one digging into Steve’s thigh, and wordlessly coaxes it between his legs. Wrapping sweaty fingers tight around his cock, you stroke him, following the rhythm Steve sets.

It feels so easy, the three of you moving in tandem, both men thrusting faster, harder, rougher, until you come once more, and just like always, they follow to a stuttering end right behind.

_Bucky._

_Steve._

_Please._

Yes, these three words are the only ones you think you’ll ever need.

****

Sated, the three of you lay together. Bucky in his favorite place, forehead tucked against your breasts, his arm curved around your waist. Steve warm and solid, molded head to toe along your back, his arm slung around you both, fingers lazily twirling Bucky’s hair.

Beyond the curtains, darkness remains. Now, with your body exhausted and comforted by their presence, if becomes easier to whisper the question.

“How did you do it?”

“Hmm?” Steve murmurs, drifting toward the balm of sleep. Bucky says nothing, simply snuggles closer, his steady breaths puffing warm on your skin.

“I remember what happened.” Softly the confession falls. “Please don’t lie to me. Tell me how you did it. How you brought me back.”

Both men stiffen. Bucky stops breathing. Steve stops stroking his hair. Dread fills you, cold as ice. You know then, whatever price they’ve paid? It will tear the world apart.

Breath tickling the back of your neck, Steve murmurs so quietly, you strain to hear.

“We made a deal.”


	2. When the Levee Breaks

*****

_“The greatness of humanity is not in being human, but in being humane.”  
Mahatma Gandhi_

*****

Along the glass smooth lake, the tufts of grass are wrapped in furry white frost. Fog rises in slow curls from the mirror of dark blue, warm water battling cold air, while white ice crackles along the edges in paper thin sheets. Each morning you walk out to the lake, the ice creeps further, a bitter omen of what will come.

It all feels surreal. Impossible and improbable. An endless winter waiting in the wings. 

From the outside, life is the same. The world turns, the sun rises in the east. Bucky still giggles madly at cat videos on YouTube and Steve still argues that cough syrup tastes delicious. For the three of you, nothing has changed.

But for the world, it _has_.

Part of you wants to hate them. It was the most selfish, self-sacrificing act either has ever committed in their long lives, but no matter how monumentally _fucked up_ the situation, it changes nothing. Regardless of the road ahead, there are no limits to the love you feel for them both, and one truth burns with a steadfast certainty - you will _always_ follow in their footsteps.

Perhaps that fact will be your downfall.

Staring bleakly across the clear lake, you think back to that night, when they explained everything. With the proverbial cards on the table, the most complicated question of your entire life now looms.

_What will you do to save them?_

*****

_Eyes downcast, they sit beside each other on the edge of the bed, overgrown children awaiting punishment. Fingers linked atop your head, you pace a short path in front of them, back and forth, breathing fast, words locked in your throat. When they finally burst free, both men flinch._

_“Explain what you mean. I don’t understand, Steve. What does a deal with a demon mean? What is that?”_

_Refusing to look up, Steve remains silent, nervously pinching the callouses on his palm. Bucky stares mutely at his toes, wiggling them into the ropey blue rug beneath the bed. He cracks his knuckles and you can tell he’s mustering his courage. Wetting his lips, he finally meets your gaze._

_“It means exactly what Steve said. I know it sounds insane, but it was a real demon. Like the kind you find in - in fairy tales or something. We met a couple guys and they told us how to find her. Said you can make a deal, whatever you want, the demon’ll give it to you…” Bucky trails off, losing steam; another deep breath and he plows on. “…she gives it to you in exchange for 10 years. Those are the contract terms, the regular deal. At the end of the 10 years, that’s it. She comes back to collect, and you’re sent - down. To hell.”_

_Disbelief clenches like an iron fist, heavy and suffocating. It makes no sense - demons don’t exist. Something else must have happened, some unknown magic, a wormhole, an alternate reality, a time loop maybe. Each ludicrous option seems more likely than their calm explanation, they must be wrong. If demons existed, SHIELD would know. There would be a documentation, strategies, fighting methods._

_There would be safe guards to stop idiots in love from making disastrous decisions._

_“Bucky, what you’re saying makes no sense. Demons aren’t real,” you say carefully, and goosebumps flare across your skin when Steve lifts guarded eyes to yours. “Steve? They’re not real. It was something else…right?”_

_“I’m sorry,” he whispers._

_Every fiber of your being screams this must be a nightmare, any moment you’ll wake up. Maybe you weren’t on the roof that day, maybe this is all a sick lucid dream. Maybe you’re alive and asleep in bed, and when you wake up Bucky will have stolen all the pillows and Steve will be in the kitchen making oatmeal._

_Wake up, you chant to yourself. Wake up, wake up, wake up._

_Nothing happens. _ _Chest heaving, you spin away, hot tears burning your throat._

_“So that’s what you did? You sold your souls to a demon? And in 10 years she comes back and - drags you to hell?”_

_“Wait,” Bucky says earnestly. “You didn’t let me finish, it wasn’t that. We didn’t sell our souls. That was the regular deal, but not for us. There’s no 10-year limit, we’re staying with you. All three of us, we get to stay together.”_

_He pushes off the bed and comes toward you, arms reaching for a hug. Surprise blooms over his face when you place both palms flat on his chest and shove. Stumbling back, he hits the mattress with a shocked bounce._

_“No,” you grit out, “Tell me you’re not that naive. It had to cost something, so what was it. What did you give her?” Stubbornly, Bucky’s mouth tightens. Fine then. Turning to Steve, you cup his chin, tilting his face until you glimpse the swirl of shame glowing in his blue eyes. “Steve. Tell me what you gave her.”_

_It takes all of five seconds for him to give in; Steve never could keep a secret. Not from Bucky. Not from you._

_“It wasn’t our souls,” he mumbles. Misery seeps from his skin and he stares intently, begging a forgiveness you never realized you had to give. “She asked for - humanity. That was what she wanted. We gave her our humanity.”_

_At his admission, a fresh urgency, a new panic, fills the hollowness in your heart._

_“Your humanity? What does that mean? What happens now?”_

_Shrugging helplessly, Steve looks back to his feet. “I guess since we gave her that, then maybe we’ll - change. Maybe we’ll become - different.”_

_It clicks, then._

_Different._

_Two battle hardened soldiers, potent super strength flowing through their veins. If you take away their good hearts, strip out the kindness and patience and compassion, extinguish the beautiful tenderness that illuminates them from the inside, what remains?_

_Brutal violence powered by deadly strength. _Something cold and destructive. __ _It seems obvious now, why the demon offered this choice._

_Stay above and be in love, happy and content for 10 years before death comes calling._

_Or stay above and be in love, happy and content for as long as life allows, with one chilling caveat - abandon who you are._

_Without a conscience to keep them in check, the scale of violence two super soldiers could wreak across the globe is breathtaking. And if they leave their humanity in the dust and use the serum thrumming in their veins for something dark and terrible? The outcome remains the same._

_Someday in the future, death will still come for them. And with a list of innocent deaths attached to their names, it all means the same thing._

_No matter what, they’ve damned themselves to hell. It’s only a matter of time._

_“But she promised nothing changes between the three of us,” Bucky interrupts the morbid train of thought, gesturing at you, at Steve, at himself. “Other things might change, but she said the three of us, we’ll stay the same. We won’t change, not when it comes to you. We can make this work, I swear.”_

_His words make you want to scream. How could they be so stupid? How could they not realize?_

_“God dammit Bucky! You’re telling me that eventually every bit of goodness that makes you human, that will disappear? What then? The world has two psychopaths with fucking super powers? Is that what you’re saying?!”_

_“But we can fight it,” Bucky argues, rising again. He takes one step and you shove him harder, knocking him back. Frustrated, he slaps the bed. “We can. I know we can. This was a way around it.”_

_Before you, they both melt into blurry shadows as the tears spill over, rivers of sticky heat dripping down your neck, soaking the ragged collar of your shirt. Hopelessness shatters your voice._

_“No you won’t, Bucky. You can’t. So now what? Huh? How am I supposed to save you?”_

_Deflated, Bucky hesitates before standing again. Cautiously, he steps forward, ignoring the hand you push against his chest, ignoring the bite of your nails scratching his skin. He murmurs your name, an imploring plea, and the sound breaks you. Trembling fingers curl into a fist and you slam your knuckles against the steel of his sternum, anger fading into fear. He says nothing, lets you expend your rage all over him, wild fists punching him over and over, until you collapse. Then he catches you easily, sitting on the bed, cuddling you in his lap._

_“I’m sorry,” he whispers, holding tight to your halfhearted struggles, before you finally give up. Burying your face against his neck, he rocks you gently, terrified tears drenching his skin like a spring rain. “But she gave you back. That was enough for us to say yes. You were worth the price.”_

_“I’m not, nothing is worth this,” you sob hysterically. Guilt pours out, overwhelming and soul-shattering. “This will kill you both, it’ll ruin you. I ruined you.”_

_“No.” Steve says fiercely. Gripping your arm, he gives a harsh shake. “You did not do this. This was our decision. We knew exactly what we were doing, sweetheart. This wasn’t a mistake.”_

_Steve moves closer, wrapping his arms around you both, one palm on the warm heat of Bucky’s shoulder blade, the other cupping your face. Pressing his lips to your forehead, the solidity of his presence a quiet reassurance. Tangling your hand in his hair, you tug hard, aching to bring him closer._

_Maybe, you think, if you hold tight enough you can keep them intact. Humanity. Souls. Hearts. Whatever they’re made up of inside, maybe if you love them hard enough, you can save them._

_“He’s right,” Bucky murmurs, trembling lips at your temple, “This was all on us. But if we had to choose between losing you and doing this again, we’d still do this. We’d choose you. We’ll always choose you.”_

*****

There are five people who know the truth.

Nick Fury and Maria Hill. Steve tells them but keeps the specifics of the deal vague. Deep down, he knows Nick would lock them up if he knew everything. They were furious, but in different ways. Fury screamed at them for 30 straight minutes, before storming out in a swirl of black leather. Following close behind, Maria gave them a tight-lipped nod and somehow, that silent disappointment was worse.

And then there were the other three.

Natasha, Tony, Sam. All three received perplexing text messages asking them to meet at Bucky and Steve’s apartment; when they arrive, Sam knocks on cautiously and Bucky meets them with a blank face, wordlessly handing each a fresh bottle of whiskey.

“You’ll need it,” is all he says.

With each Avenger clutching their liquor, Bucky and Steve proceed to explain everything. Their sorrow, their grief. The inability to find any future without you. Their anger at _everything_, at the world, at each other. Calmly, they each offer their perspective and they see Tony looking confused, Sam looking uneasy, and Natasha looking - strangely resigned.

When they finally finish, there’s a long silence, until Natasha snaps the cap on her bottle of whiskey and takes a long swig. She wipes her mouth and asks.

“What did you do?”

Steve looks at Bucky, who stares determinedly at his feet. Nodding to himself, he rises slowly, walking into the bedroom. Beyond the doors, they hear the hum of low voices and then the door creaks open. Bucky hesitates in the doorway. 

Then he leads you forward.

At the unexpected sight, Tony tumbles off the armchair with a garbled shout and Sam leaps to his feet.

Natasha still sits calmly.

“So. You met the Winchester boys,” she states. Defiance in his eyes, Bucky shoots her a cool glare.

“Yes,” he says shortly, and she simply nods. Carefully setting her bottle of whiskey on the floor, she rises gracefully and tiptoes toward you. Instantly, Steve and Bucky lean into a protective stance, mirrored snarls on their lips, but Natasha brushes them aside. With no hesitation, she wraps you in a fierce hug.

“I’m so glad you’re home,” she whispers in your ear. Burying your face in her hair, the sweet scents of lavender and leather swirl, so unequivocally _Natasha_.

They explain everything then. The deal, the magic, the price. All down to the last, gruesome detail. At the end of their story, the room is silent. Tony is the first to respond, ashen faced, shaking with unspeakable anger. He heaves his full bottle of whiskey into the fireplace and it explodes with a crash of flames, before he barrels through the front door with a resounding _boom_.

Sam sways where he stands, his vision folding along the edges. He wants to understand, he _does_. More than anyone, he saw the depths of grief into which they sunk, but this? He never considered this. But instead of screaming, he says nothing, just hugs you gently, thinking bizarrely of delicately spun glass. Shoulders sagging under the burden of knowing, he silently follows Tony, closing the door softly in his wake.

And Natasha? Well. Standing in the doorway, she smiles sadly.

“I spoke to them too, you know. Found a crossroad in Colorado. Nine years ago,” she confesses. “One year to go.”

The door clicks shut, leaving them to ponder a new horror.

*****

The official SHIELD report stamps your return with _CONFIDENTIAL_ block letters, and the file is buried deep in the vaults. It leaks to the press as a simple solution, a fake out, a way to throw the bad guys off the trail. Here you are, alive and well, on leave for an indeterminate period.

New York becomes too much. Hostile and loud, too many questions, too many opportunities to let the truth slip free. In the middle of the night, the three of you tangled in a mess of sleepy limbs, Steve offers a solution.

At sunrise you leave.

Refuge comes at a secluded cabin in upstate New York, a mossy pile of logs Steve fell in love with years ago and purchased on a whim. Hidden deep in the trees, it overlooks a crystalline lake and when the door opens, it smells of dust and mothballs. With a mop, a few dust rags, and a bit of elbow grease, it quickly becomes a home.

There, life _finally_ moves forward.

Mornings with bitter coffee, mornings with breathless runs, mornings lazing in a massive claw foot bathtub, big enough for three.

Evenings by the crackling fire, evenings full of books and music, evenings filled with Bucky’s sweat slicked hair tangled in your fingers, with Steve’s quiet groans between your legs, with your shaking cries echoing off the walls.

Sheer perfection. Every waking moment. 

After a few weeks, Bucky and Steve tentatively return to combat, agreeing to short missions that never tear them from your side for more than a few days. Stepping up together, they take on the world once more, protecting the innocent, righting the wrongs. Each time they return, they come refreshed and relaxed, full of sweet words and excited laughter, familiar bits of your former life spilling into the comfortable home the three of you have made together.

They seem so happy. So bright and wild and bursting with love.

It makes you wonder. Maybe, _just maybe_, Bucky was right. Maybe they found a way around the inevitable. Maybe the demon changed her mind. Maybe they’re safe.

Maybe it _worked_.

*****

Until slowly and certainly, things begin to change.

*****

Bullets are pinging around them, sparks flying through the air. Steve moves confidently, smoothly dodging every bullet slung their way with a flick of his shield. Behind him, Bucky slinks along, his gun at the ready. When they cut around the corner, three men put up a cursory fight, before all three are taken down with a flick of the shield and two well-placed bullets.

“Like taking candy from a baby,” Steve mutters. Sifting through a pile of paper, he gathers up the files, stuffs them in a secure pocket at his hip and motions for Bucky to leave.

They hear a faint moan.

Propped against the wall, sits a hostage. Mouth taped shut, feet tied together. Blood streams thick and heavy down his face, congealing in a warm pool along his collarbone. Death is imminent, even across the room they can smell it coming. As they come closer, the man registers footsteps and opens his eyes, blinking blearily at the two men looking down. Recognition when he sees the familiar red, white, and blue, a glimmer of hope cutting through the pain.

Staring down, Steve twitches his fingers, an unconscious motion to help, before something inside denies the move.

How peculiar.

Turning away, he issues a rough order at Bucky.

“He won’t make it. Put him out of his misery.”

Bucky gazes at the dying man at his feet.

Shrugging, he raises his pistol and pulls the trigger.

*****

Sunlight streams through the tall windows of the living room, as you laze on the couch. Down the hall, you hear the shower running, the sound of Steve’s off-key baritone singing as he soaps the red stains of death from his skin.

When he shuffles into the living room wearing sweatpants and a soft green shirt, his tired eyes find you. The lingering stress falls away and he bounds forward, flopping on the couch with a careless _oompf_. Dropping a kiss on your forehead, he carefully arranges a pillow in your lap, and plunks his head down. Post shower, his blond hair is wet dark and squeaky clean, the spicy scent of body wash lingering on soft skin.

“Scratch my head?” he asks, adding a sweet pout that never fails to make you give in. Dragging your fingers through the damp strands, you rub his scalp and he sighs happily. When he stretches his feet over the edge of the couch with a wide yawn, his muscles shift and twist, reminding you of a lion you saw once at the zoo. Big and lazy, soaking up the warm golden sunshine.

“Nothing but a big lazy cat,” you murmur, one hand in his hair, the other rubbing slow circles over his heart. Closing his eyes, he grins at the comparison. Catching the hand at his chest, he brings your palm to his lips and presses kisses along each finger, before linking his hand to yours. Moments pass, and his body goes lax, a low stream of steady breaths as he drifts to sleep.

In the shifting afternoon sun, you stay there, watching the light play off his pale eyelashes. You think about Steve. Warm skin and golden hair. Sharp claws retracted; teeth hidden. Deadly to everyone, except those he loves.

*****

“I gave you the intel, I gave it to you!”

Bucky stabs the knife into the muscled meat of the man’s thigh, and the responding scream reverberates off the walls. Like flame hot metal through butter, the pale skin is splayed open, revealing marbled streaks of yellow fat, white bone gleaming beneath. Blubbering incoherently, bloody spit foams in the corners of his mouth, wild eyes rolling back in his head.

“I gave it to you, I did, I did, I did, _please_!”

There is a pause and for a blessed moment, the man believes he has a reprieve. Swollen eyes fly open, meeting bright blue and Bucky smiles.

And then he punches the knife handle straight through the man’s thigh bone. It cracks and splinters apart and the man screams and screams and _screams_ and Bucky laughs and laughs and _laughs_.

“Did you think I fucking cared?”

*****

The sticky scent of maple syrup wakes you.

Crawling from the empty bed, you wrap the feather down comforter around your shoulders and shuffle from the bedroom, eager for the source.

The sight catches you off guard. Unimaginably soft.

There in the kitchen, Bucky stands in nothing but skintight black boxers.

Hair twisted in a messy knot, he shimmies through the small space, dancing absently to the music tinkling from the small speaker propped on the windowsill. On the stove, he has a flat skillet coated in butter and filled with bubbling silver-dollar pancakes. Along the edge of the counter, he taps out a rhythm with his spatula, _tap tap tap-a-tap-a-tap_, and your heart swells at the gentle domesticity.

When he whirls around, he discovers you watching from the doorway, sleepy and rumpled. He lights up, a honeyed smile on his lips, and stretches out a hand, a wordless request. Tripping into his arms, he tucks you safe against his chest.

“Morning baby,” he murmurs, warm breath tickling your ear. “God you look beautiful. How’d I get so lucky?”

The words are simple, lovely phrases he’s shared a million times before, but still your belly flips. Rubbing your cheek against his hot skin, you relax. Let yourself believe everything is _perfect_, while Bucky dances you slowly around the cozy kitchen until the charcoal crisp of pancake flavors the air.

“Buck, I think your pancakes are burning,” you breathe against the sandpaper stubble along his neck.

He merely hums.

“Let ‘em burn. I’m dancin’ with my girl.”

Mellow notes of smoky jazz drift through the air and you burrow closer, until Bucky pulls you down to the smooth kitchen tiles. The feather comforter pillows beneath you, the searing heat of his mouth tracing down your neck. 

*****

“We’re out of time, set the bombs off. Now.”

In all the time he’s known known Steve Rogers, Sam has _never_ heard his voice like this. Brittle. Cold. Devoid of emotion. On the ground below, amid soaring walls of steel and glass, screaming voices echo off the tower buildings. From his perch high above the melee, Sam stares watches people streaming from the front doors. He hesitates.

“There are still people inside,” he responds.

On the other end of the line is a bone crunching _thunk_, a truncated scream. Steve’s voice returns.

“Did I fucking stutter? Set it off. _Now_.”

Again, Sam hesitates, the trigger clenched in his sweaty hand. He shakes his head.

“Negative, Cap. There are still - “

“Jesus Christ, Wilson, you fucking _pussy_,” Bucky snarls. He rips the black box from Sam’s numb fingers and shoves him aside. Without pause, he flips the switch.

Across the street, the building rumbles and sways and in the space of a breath, the world is rent apart: glass shatters, steel beams screech, concrete explodes. All those still inside, fighting their way to freedom, go down in a crush of rubble, screams and shouts silenced by the thundering rush of crumbling stone.

Stalking around the corner, Steve is sliding the shield onto his back. Without a glance at the crowd below, he rushes at Sam.

“When I tell you to do something, don’t you _ever_ fucking hesitate. You understand?”

Beside him, Bucky snorts and flings the device to the ground. He grinds it under his heel and strolls away, resuming his stance above the disaster. Blanching at the rage in those blue eyes, Sam takes a wordless step back.

“Yeah. Yeah, I understand.”

*****

The last time Steve came to the familiar meadow, was because he needed space to let the rage in his heart spill into the world. In the desolation of those black nights, he screamed his fury into the heavens, broken beyond repair.

This time is different.

Velvety night drips through the sparse tree branches as you walk through the dense forest, Steve leading the way, Bucky close behind. Slivers of moonlight streak through the dark trees, illuminating the huffs of frosty white breath.

When you reach the clearing, Steve slips his warm hand through your gloved fingers, Bucky curves a protective arm around your shoulders. Together, they lead you toward the middle of the field, until they come to an abrupt halt.

Bemused, you stare at them. Under the shy glow of white moonlight, they look carved from marble.

Fallen angels, maybe.

“Is everything okay?” you whisper, eyes roving uncertainly between them.

From the depths of his pocket, Bucky pulls free a black satin box. It sits in the palm of his hand and he looks nervously at you, over to Steve, back to you. He clears his throat.

“We’ve been talking about this forever.” A crooked smile lifts his lips. “Since the first night you spent with us. This here, what we have with you, it’s the only thing we want. We don’t need anything official, but we thought you should know. We’ll love you forever, sweetheart. If you’ll let us.”

Gently, he opens the case, revealing a dark ring set against white silk. Eyes wide, you watch as Bucky lifts the simple band, two strings of delicate black vibranium twisted into an infinity circle. As he holds it aloft, Steve nudges him, and they both fall, kneeling to worship at your feet.

“What do you think?” Steve murmurs. Tentative, hesitant. As though the answer could ever be anything other the words rolling from your tongue.

No matter the circumstance, the love you have for Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers is the one shining light in a world of darkness.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Of course. I love you both so much, nothing will ever change that. Forever.”

Under the raw, naked gleam of the bright night, you kneel before them, face to face with their delighted smiles. Together they reach for you, pulling you into the safe haven of their arms.

*****

“God dammit Rogers! You’re out of line with this shit!”

Leaning over his desk, Nick Fury wipes irritably at the fat beads of sweat dripping down his temple.

Across from him, Steve and Bucky sit in matching leather chairs, both still wearing their combat uniforms. They look like heathens, covered in dust and blood, the pervading reek of death defiling the pristine shine of the SHIELD office. Bucky sits with his legs sprawled open, Steve with one ankle balanced on the opposite knee.

Both are smirking.

“Are we though?” Steve shrugs, eyes wide. “If you’re not gonna do your job, someone has to pick up the slack. Like always.”

Nick grinds his teeth so hard they nearly crack. He sees _red_.

“That’s it, you cocky sonofa_bitch_. We’re done with this. Effective immediately, you’re relieved of your duties. Both of you.”

Steve tips his head back and laughs, an inhuman sound. Nick feels his gut twist.

“Really? Buck did you hear that? We’re ‘relieved’ of our duties. How’s that sound?”

“Sounds like a fucking relief,” Bucky drawls. He picks at his fingernail, scraping dried blood from beneath and flicking it away. Tilting his head, he looks up at Fury with a poisonous smile. “But I dunno, the thing is _Director_, we’re pretty happy with our jobs. Pays the bills and gives us something to do, so I don’t think we’ll accept your offer. Another day, maybe. That sound good Stevie?”

“Sounds great, Buck.”

At a loss for words, Nick stares. Over the decades, he’s encountered some genuinely fucked up people, a common currency in this line of business, but this? This right here? This is a whole other _level_. Every hint of remorse, every bit of humanity, every last fragment of goodness is gone. Disappeared. Nothing more than ashes in the wind.

It is a bleak world, when superheroes become the monsters they hunt.

Steeling himself, Nick presses his fists into the desk to hide the shaking tremor of nerves.

“One last warning Rogers. Turn in your weapons and go home. Stand down, or I _will_ make you.”

“Oh please,” Steve sneers, delight in his voice, “give it your best shot. I can’t wait to see how that goes.”

Smoothly simultaneous, they stand. The sound of raucous laughter follows them through the door and into the hallway, before abruptly ending as the heavy wood slams shut. Wide-eyed, Nick sinks slowly into his creaking leather chair.

The skin along the back of his neck tingles.

“Motherfucker,” he whispers.

*****  
  


Standing at the edge of the dark lake, gentle ripples slide along the edges of cracked ice. It grows so fast now, stretching frozen fingers to claim the sheet of blue. Like a parasite, hardening the shoreline, freezing the world to stone.

The wicked irony of the metaphor is not lost.

Staring at the mobile phone clenched tight in your icy fingers, you turn it on for the first time in weeks and the screen lights up with a sea of notifications, red blips and blinking green lights, texts, emails, voicemails. Indicators of an increasingly desperate world beyond the confines of your comfortable bubble. Scrolling through, the names are an endless loop and your heart plummets.

Natasha, Sam, Tony. _Nick Fury_.

While Steve and Bucky have said nothing, the question itched at your brain. Upon each return, you begged them to tell you: what happened, how were they feeling, what did they see, was anything changing? And over and over, they answered with bashful shrugs and dashing smiles, fervent kisses pressed to your lips as they murmured the same response.

_Nothing changed. Everything is good, we feel fine._

Nausea rises, thick and sour. Why did you ever let yourself believe them?

Before they agonized over morality, what was right, the cost of their decisions. But now? The evidence of their lies are there in black and white. Thumbing through, you see the increasing alarm in every message, descriptions of all they’ve done. Bombs, gunshots, torture. Blatant disregard for lives, for their team, for anything and anyone other than themselves.

Any semblance of humanity whittled away to nothing. Shattered by a desperate wish and a bargaining dance with a red-eyed demon.

_Fuck_.

Finger hovering over the latest message from Natasha, you brace yourself and click it open. The words jumble together, swimming black letters.

** _Nat: _ ** _Dean Winchester. 785-555-0128. Call him. Please._

Eyes shut, you tip your face up to the sky, sucking in a lungful of sharp air.

For all the darkness circling their souls, the truth is, it remains pure and clear when it comes to their love for you. Bright smiles in the morning, rich laughter teasing through the day, sweet caresses in the night. The unconventionally beautiful relationship among the three of you created remains flawless.

Just as the demon promised.

Selfishly, you want that to be enough - _if only it could be - _but no. Some wrongs need to be righted, and this tragedy now rests squarely in your hands. Maybe you can save them. _Maybe_.

And if you can’t?

Heart hammering wildly in your chest, you punch the number, lift the phone to your ear and wait. It rings for so long, you nearly give up, until a gruff voice finally answers.

“Hello?”

*****


	3. All hell breaks loose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY RIGHT?? Thanks to everyone who patiently waited for me to finish this story, sometimes the muse is fickle! This little 3-part series was my first attempt with a Stucky x Reader storyline, a crossover fic, and…ahem…some bum stuff. So many cherries popped! If you’re a Supernatural fan, there’s a fleeting mention of another SPN character at the end, which may color some people’s view on what happens next…HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

There are some days when Dean Winchester questions his life.

Standing beneath a squeaky shower spitting more rust than water, he picks thick globs of pale skin from beneath his fingernails. When they splat on the shower floor, he nudges the chunks toward the drain with his toe, gagging as they slip out of sight.

Yeah. This is _definitely_ one of those days.

After five days following a shapeshifter across the icy prairies of Nebraska, he and Sam finally caught the bastard outside an abandoned farmhouse near Manhattan, Kansas. It took both of them, a pitchfork, and a well placed silver blade to end the chase.

After that? He deserves the greasy treasure of a bacon cheeseburger he’s hunting down the moment he’s clean.

After clogging the drain with gooey shapeshifter skin and running the hot water dry, he heads out to track down dinner. Thirty minutes later, he squeals back into the motel parking lot with grease stained bags and a growling stomach, rapidly approaching code red hangry.

When the phone rings, it doesn’t register at first.

Shoving a fistful of fries in his mouth, he nearly slams the door, before halting mid-chew. Plopping the bag of burgers on the car roof, he cocks an ear before recognizing the source of that tinny ring. Ducking into the front seat, he opens the glove box and rummages through a pile of phones until he sees the blinking green light. An unknown number flashes and he feels a visceral spark of - something. A premonition, maybe. He debates letting it go to voicemail and ignoring the inevitable problem lurking on the end of the line. But then - 

“Fucking _hell_.”

Unfortunately for him, that’s not how the Winchesters operate. Flipping open the duct taped phone, he barks out a greeting.

“Hello?”

Empty silence. He waits, patiently impatient, until a tentative voice speaks.

“Hello, I’m looking for Dean Winchester.”

“You got him,” Dean answers. He grabs another French fry and takes a slug of chocolate milkshake. The silence stretches on, before he tries again. “Can I help you with something?”

Miles away, desperately clutching the phone, you clear your throat.

“I’m sorry. Yes. Awhile back, you and your brother met with two men. You gave them some information, told them how to find someone who would - make them a deal.”

Dean freezes.

Of course. He really should have expected this call. Resigned, he rubs his forehead as a migraine blooms. 

“Right. Yeah, I did. Because I’m an idiot.” He glares at the bag of food before pushing it away in disgust. “It was you, then? You’re the one they wanted to bring back?”

“Yes,” you say softly. Over the airwaves, Dean hears the hopelessness loud and clear. That feeling, he knows. There’s nothing quite like the devastation that follows a miracle you never wanted.

“Listen, I’m sorry about this, believe me. I’m kicking my own ass for ever telling them. I should’ve said no.” 

“Yes,” you agree quietly. “But it doesn’t matter. If it wasn’t you, it would have been someone else. Once they discovered it was possible, nothing would’ve stopped them.”

Another feeling Dean knows all too well.

“So what happened?”

He hears you draw a shaky breath. When you begin, your words knock him sideways.

Every bloody detail. Every gruesome discovery. Every terrible thing these heroes have done, written in the black stars of hell. Unconscionable decisions, unimaginable choices. 

But then your voice twists, pleading empathy for these men whose hearts of gold are now shackled in sulfur. He hears every last drop of unwavering love they offer. Flickers of goodness still simmering in the dark, waiting to flame to life. He hears the depth of devotion overflowing from a hopeful heart that refuses to give up.

In the end, your voice fades away, exhausted from baring your soul to this broken down Hunter. Dean tips his head back to stare at a moonless night sky. He hates himself, but he’s compelled to ask.

“What can I do?”

When you respond, he lays his head against the cold roof of the Impala.

*****

Buried under a mountain of blankets, you stare blankly at the fireplace, orange flames lulling you into that sweet headspace on the edge of sleep. Hours pass, before the screech of a slamming car door startles you awake.

Through the thick walls, you can hear them. The low rumble of Steve’s voice, Bucky’s booming laughter. Their exuberant voices tease each other, a swirl of happiness louder and louder, until the porch steps creak beneath heavy boots. Anxiously rubbing your eyes, you take several quick breaths.

_Calm_, you think. _Stay calm._

The door bursts open and they tumble inside, smelling of crisp snow and worn leather. Two pairs of bright eyes find you in the dim firelight and the joy in their smiles is blinding.

“Hey gorgeous,” Steve drops his duffle bag and bounds over, leaping onto the couch in a flurry of grimy blond hair and dusty kevlar. He buries his face in your neck, moaning happily. “I’m gross, but I _missed_ you. I’ll wash the blankets later, I promise.”

Bucky kicks off his boots as he walks, chuckling under his breath. He sets his bag on the table and leans over the back of the couch, lightly touching his forehead to yours.

“Hi baby,” he whispers and the tip of his nose is icy, nudging your cheek when he kisses your lips. 

Are you imagining it? Is it real? This darkness clinging to them, like snowflakes dissolving at your touch?

Does it matter?

Did it ever?

Together, they urge you to your feet, hushed voices begging for that enduring tradition welcoming all soldiers home from war. Steve scoops you up in his arms, and Bucky runs ahead, flipping on every knob in your massive walk-in shower. Anxious hands shed their clothes, leaving them in a dirty heap on the floor and then they turn to you, pulling off your sweater, tugging down your wrinkled blue sweats.

“Come here,” Steve murmurs. Amid billowing clouds of steam, he walks you into the shower, Bucky eager on his heels. Hungry hands stroke over your breasts, rough fingers dig into your hips.

“Wait, wait - how was the mission? Do you - do you feel okay?”

Bucky nuzzles the smooth skin along your shoulder, his teeth nipping playfully.

“Fine. Piece of cake,” he says mildly. He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you tight against the iron planes of his body, and you feel him thick and hard against your back. 

Steve sinks to his knees on the wet tile, sky blue eyes gazing up at you. The image is stunning, _Steve_ is stunning, more god than man as he bows before the loves of his life. It plucks at your heart and a fractured sob rises in your throat.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Steve massages soothing circles on your thighs, worry in his eyes. Bucky tenses, his mouth hovering over your pulse point and you feel him hug you impossibly closer. The burning lump sticks in your throat, but you summon a tremulous smile. 

“Nothing, I just - I was worried about you. And I missed you both so _much_,” your voice cracks as Steve leans a stubbled cheek against your knee. Even with the water sluicing down his face, you feel the searing heat of his lips.

“We’re always careful,” Bucky says. “I got Stevie’s back and he’s got mine, don’t you worry. We’re _always_ coming home to you. Nothing on Earth that’ll keep us away.” 

Worshiping at your feet, Steve whispers his agreement, his hands sliding higher. Fingers slip between your legs, rubbing gently before slowly pushing inside. When he dips forward, his mouth finds your clit and you arch back in Bucky’s arms. 

“There you go honey,” Bucky breathes. “That’s nice, isn’t it?”

Leaning your head against his shoulder, glassy eyes roll to the ceiling. The pressure of Steve’s tongue between your legs, of Bucky’s fingers pinching your nipples, of that delicious slick thrust deep inside, every contrasting element makes you dizzy.

“Please,” you gasp, clutching Bucky’s arm like a lifeline. “Please, Steve, _please_.”

Steve obeys, soft lips tugging the orgasm from you. Bucky holds you in place, letting Steve wring every last drop from your aching core while your cries of pleasure rebound off the walls. All around you, promises and praise drench your skin like spring rain.

“So gorgeous sweetheart…”

“I’m here, I got you…”

“…never gonna let you go.”

Steve rises to his feet and stretches back against the wall, coaxing your pliable body with him. When you collapse into his arms, he hooks your leg around his waist and in one smooth motion, he buries himself in your cunt.

“So good honey, you feel so good,” he rasps. “Kiss me now, come on.”

Behind you, Bucky slips a hand between you and Steve, warm metal between your legs, banking that smoldering heat. His other hand fumbles along the shelf, searching for the bottle of lube he teasingly stashed behind his shampoo one night. A moment later, you feel his cool fingers slide down your ass, before pushing a slick finger inside.

In the intimacy of this act, they are overwhelming.

Domineering and possessive, brimming with dark desire. Engulfed in their blazing heat, you shiver uncontrollably, craving the feel of Bucky slowly pumping his hand, pushing deep, working you open, one finger, _two fingers_, until you tear away from Steve with a moan.

“Bucky, _please_.”

Bucky fumbles as he slips and slides against your skin, lining himself up. He moves so carefully, tucking his face against your neck when he eases himself inside, his groan sizzling under your skin.

Steam is everywhere now, an opaque layering across the glass, fog misting the floor, dripping thick down the dark gray wall. Bucky places both hands flat against the slippery tile framing Steve’s face, his chest plastered to your back as he thrusts into you. When his hand slips, he grips the back of your neck to steady himself and snaps his hips harder, mirroring Steve’s rhythm.

“Fuck, jesus, _fuck_,” Bucky pants.

Threading one shaking hand into Steve’s wet hair, curving an arm behind to keep Bucky close, your wordless gasps dissolve into bliss as the world upends and you break, coming hard in the safety of their arms.

As they always do - as they always _will_ \- they both follow, rough voices bouncing off the tiles. Hidden in the steam, the tears slip free then, born of a terrible fear for these two men who hold you tight between them, greedily drinking every drop of love you pour into their arms.

*****

Later that night, you watch the night shadows glide across the room. Bucky is snuggled tight against your chest, his slow breaths warm against your skin. Steve is curled behind you, an arm slung over your waist to tangle in Bucky’s hair.

Both sleep soundly, the kind of dreamless exhaustion that follows a night of pleasure. But you remain awake, thinking.

It seems impossible to reconcile, the words you read from Natasha and Sam and Nick. Impossible to believe these two men could be capable of the atrocities attached to their names. Every beat of your heart rejects it, denial pumping through your veins, but your brain knows better. After everything they’ve done, everything they’ve surrendered, there is only one option.

Through the bedroom window, you gaze at the heavens, that far-flung, unattainable realm. There is one final mission that must be done. One for you alone.

Locked between Bucky and Steve, you drift to sleep.

*****

For awhile, nothing happens.

No calls, no texts, no news from the outside world. Like the frozen lake behind the cabin, the horror begins to thaw, blurring along the edges. 

But when it comes, it comes fast. 

Bucky is sprawled on the thick green rug spread before the fireplace, his feet propped up and unconsciously stretching toward the flames; above his head, he thumbs through his phone. Perched together on opposite ends of the couch, you and Steve are engaged in a fierce chess match, both eyeing the board warily. The living room is quiet, the only sounds an occasional huff from Steve or the crackle of popping sap. It startles you both when Bucky speaks.

“Hey, did you see this? Some terrorist activity in Mongolia. Might be an old Hydra cell reactivating.” Glancing up to Steve, he raises an eyebrow. “Been awhile. How about it? Wanna go kick the shit outta some Hydra assholes?”

Suspicious at his casual tone, you consider him. Unless the world was on the verge of collapse, there is no way the team would have asked Bucky and Steve join them again. Not now. Not after everything.

Before Steve can respond, you interrupt.

“How do you know? Did the team message?”

“Just a database we monitor,” Bucky waves a blithe hand. “Expect we’ll get a call from the team soon enough.”

“Maybe you should wait for them to reach out. Make sure you’re needed, instead of wasting the trip.”

“Nah, it’ll be easier to meet them there,” Bucky says confidently, bouncing to his feet. ”Wastes less time, gets us back here sooner.”

Steve is already wiggling up from the couch, trying not to rattle the chess pieces. Struggling to remain calm, you dump it aside and scramble up.

“Hang on -”

“We can drive back toward the city, maybe take one of the smaller jets and - “

“I think you should wait,” you say loudly. There’s a moment of surprised silence and Steve gives you a curious look. 

“Why? Is something wrong?”

“No, I just - I’d rather you stay here. With me. I worry about - about everything. About you both.”

Bucky reaches over, touching a metal knuckle under your chin. Soft lips press at the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your forehead. He bumps his nose against yours and smiles.

“Told you not to worry, we’ll be fine. We got each others back.”

“We’ll be home before you know it,” Steve adds.

Stomach plummeting, you realize.

This is your chance.

*****

When they leave at dawn, they wrap you in a hug. Steve presses his face to your neck, whispers his love in your ear. Bucky kisses each of your fingers and places your hand over his heart.

“Leaving our hearts with you, take care of them. We’ll be home soon.”

They leave, a cloud of dust rolling from the tires of Bucky’s new old car, a midnight blue Chevy Chevelle with white stripes painted down the hood. As they drive into the rising sun, you send a text message.

One hour later, you leave.

*****

After a five hour drive through the winding backroads of the Adirondack mountains, the small diner is a welcome beacon. When you step through the rickety front door, you spy them stuffed side by side into a corner booth by the window. 

Dark hair flopping across his forehead, Sam Winchester has a book open in front of him, one hand rubbing the back of his neck while he scans the pages. 

Beside him, Dean Winchester holds a pencil in front of his eyes, determinedly shaking it up and down. 

“Sam. _Sam_. Sammy, come on, watch. I think I got - there! Are you looking? Hey, are you looking? Come on, see how it gets all floppy? It’s _spooky_, man.”

Clearing your throat, you gesture to the empty seat.

“Excuse me. May I sit?”

Dean drops his pencil and it rolls off the table; Sam snaps his book shut. Both men tense, before Sam nods.

Sliding across from them, you lean forward.

“Thanks for meeting me. I know I was vague, so let’s not waste any time. I’m here about the demon. I need you to tell me how to contact it.”

Dean kicks the table leg and Sam grabs his shoulder, so he doesn’t lunge across the table. 

“Why?” Sam asks kindly, although he knows the answer.

“Is it possible to get out of the contract?”

“No,” Dean says flatly. “No, it isn’t.”

“Alright, that’s fine. Even if the contract stays, I have another idea,” you begin.

Dean rolls his eyes. “I’m sure you do. Let me guess. You’re gonna tell the demon you want to trade places with them. How original.”

A sarcastic smile curves your lips.

“How ironic, coming from a Winchester.”

Before Dean can respond, Sam interrupts.

“We understand what you’re trying to do,” he says, “but it won’t want you. Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes are the best deal that demon’s ever made. It won’t let them go.”

Nodding, you trace your thumb along a deep groove carved into the pale green formica.

“I know. But there might be something else I can do, so I just - I need to try.”

Dean slaps his hands on the table and coffee sloshes from their mugs.

“_No_. We’ve already made this mistake. _Twice_. We’re not doing it again.”

“This time is different. I can fix this.”

“Really? How? What _exactly_ are you gonna do, because I gotta tell you - there’s no fucking way to fix it. Believe me. They’re not getting out of this deal. End of story.”

Lifting your chin, your expression grows cold.

“You owe me.”

The words are quiet, but the anger behind them is shocking.

“We _what_? What the hell does that -”

“_You owe me_. You know you never should’ve told them. All you had to do was refuse, but you didn’t. And now here I am, while this deal destroys them. Dead things should stay dead, but you fucked that up and now we all live with the consequences, so yeah - you owe me.” 

It galls Dean. God damn, it _infuriates_ him, but - you’re right. It makes him sick every time he thinks about his role in this mess.

Captain America.

The Winter Soldier.

Black Widow.

Superheroes to their core, and all three so eager to trade their lives for someone they love. It’s always the same, this simple truth the Winchesters discovered so long ago - love is the most dangerous deal of them all. 

“If we tell you and it goes sideways - and it will - then we’ll fix things ourselves,” Dean warns. “And you won’t like how we do that. Don’t you go making another deal with it. This is your only warning. You understand me?”

“You have my word. If this goes sideways - I’ll take care of them.”

This time Sam Winchester unearths a small notebook and scribbles down the information. With the paper clenched in your fist, you hurry away. The Winchester brothers watch from the grimy diner window as you throw a beat up Volkswagon into gear and tear out of the parking lot.

Dean bangs his head against the table.

“God dammit, Sammy. You know what we’ll have to do now.”

Sam watches the black silhouette of your car disappear over the horizon.

Yeah. He knows.

*****

Under a midnight sky, the crossroads gleam, moonlight glinting off the sheen of slick frost lining the gravel. Crouched in the dead center, bits of rock grind into your knees, while fumbling fingers spade through frozen dirt.

Beside you sits a battered cigar box, the sweet scent of tobacco long since vanished. Steve had spied the treasure at a rummage sale and scooped it up, reminiscing about keeping his baseball cards in one as a boy; it sat on your bookshelf forever, a quiet ode to a simpler time.

Tonight, it holds three different items.

A crumpled photo of you laughing, the one Bucky kept tucked inside his journal; a vial of graveyard dirt, gathered from the overgrown weeds of an abandoned cemetery; and the leg bone of a black cat, an unlucky bit of luck found decaying on the roadside.

Tossing aside the shovel, you tug at the tight neck of your old blue-black tactical suit. It seemed fitting, arriving for this battle wearing the suit you died in. Smears of blood are still splashed across the blue, rusty stains that spoke of bombs and buried memories. After your funeral, Bucky had stolen the suit from the morgue and stuffed it in a box, hidden deep in his closet; the tearful confession came one night after you returned, his fresh tears still wet on your skin. 

There was a sick symmetry to wearing it now. Because in order to win tonight’s battle - you would have to lose.

The night air is muffled as you spin a slow circle, waiting.

_There_.

Born from nothing, a beautiful woman appears. Lush curves sway as she saunters forward, blood red eyes shimmering, slender ankles peeping from beneath her white dress. She tucks a thick curl of dark hair behind her ear and smiles. 

“Well, how _interesting_. True love really is one of life’s greatest mysteries.”

Fear blocks your throat and it takes several attempts to speak.

“It was - was it you? You made the deal with them?”

The woman - the _demon_ \- tilts her head. She laces her finger together, a scathing mockery of prayer.

“Oh yes, it was me. They talked to those insufferable Winchesters, and then buried their box and waited. So strong and handsome, but so _dead_ inside.” She licks her lips, hungry at the thought. “Hard to believe the loss of one useless human could cause so much heartache for two such _virile_ men.”

The words paint a painful picture, of Bucky and Steve standing hand in hand before this creature, broken hearts with nothing to lose.

“They were mourning,” your voice cracks. “You took advantage of them.”

At the sound of your sorrow, she laughs. An amused shake of her head sends dark curls dancing.

“They never told me you were funny. I’m sorry, but no. They called me here, they made their request, they sealed the deal with a kiss. They knew _exactly_ what they were doing. Although I must admit, your Captain was _less_ than helpful. Stiff as a board, someone should teach that man how to kiss. Your Sergeant though, he was something special. In fact, he seemed _quite_ interested. I think he may have even fucked to seal the deal,” she muses slyly. “Perhaps he’d been missing that at home?”

Her smile widens, venom curving her lips. Blinking at the insinuation, a spark of rage flares to life. 

“Fuck you.”

“Now, now, that’s no way to conduct a business transaction.”

Dread freezes your heart at her words. _Control yourself_, you think. _They’re counting on you_.

“Fine,” you scowl. “Sorry. I just - I want to ask about making one. Making a deal, I mean.”

The demon shrugs.

“That is my job. So what can I do for you?”

Steeling your nerves, it takes every drop of willpower to force the request free.

“I want you to release their contract. Give them back their humanity.”

A sneer curls her lip.

“Well sweetheart, that’s not really a deal_, _now is it?”

“It is. Because I can give you something else.”

“And what could you possibly offer, that would tempt _me_?”

“Me,” you whisper. “You can have me.”

The demon stares, betraying nothing. Holding your breath, you pray she accepts. Signed, sealed, delivered to your doom, with safe passage back for the men you love.

After a long minute, she rolls her eyes.

“Pathetic. Do you understand how negotiations work? _You_, are not a worthwhile trade. Why take one human soul, when I have two super soldiers primed to raze the world? They’ll both join us downstairs eventually.” Examining her fingernails, she gives a sardonic smile. “There are plenty of people who want to make deals, I have no problem sourcing souls. _You_ are not unique or valuable. They are.”

“Please,” you croak, despising your desperation. “Please. I don’t need extra time, I’ll go now. You can have me right now, no strings. Please.”

“No deal,” she says sweetly. “But perhaps, if you’re _very_ polite, I might consider another option?”

Here it is.

“What’s the option?”

“I hold another contract for someone you love. It’s been almost ten years - so funny how time flies - that Natasha Romanoff came to see me. I made her a deal, she took the ten years. Her clock has nearly expired, I’ll be coming for her soul soon. But I could be persuaded to release her.”

“For a price?”

“Your soldiers have a dark road ahead,” she answers softly. “After the things they’ve done, the things they _could_ do with such a long life ahead? Make no mistake, hell will be waiting. You can let them travel that road alone - or you can stay with them. Even after the end.”

_Even after the end._

“Go on,” you whisper.

“Your humanity,” she answers. “I’ll make you a deal just like theirs. Give me your humanity and everything is set right. Natasha regains her soul. You go home to your boys and the three of you go back to the way things were. The trade is fair. I’m not usually so magnanimous.”

Staring down at your hands, the scenario races through your mind, playing out all possible outcomes.

“What would happen to me? Would I change?”

“Well it took awhile for their humanity to burn out. Longer than I expected,” she hums thoughtfully. “Their serum is _miraculous_. Full of surprises. But with you? Once you accept, it disappears fast. So it’s up to you. Perhaps nothing will happen? Or perhaps it will be _you_ burning down the world at their side. It all comes down to that single question - are they worth the risk?”

Time is suspended, as you stare down the barrel of hell.

Give up your humanity. Follow them wherever they go. Even after the end.

It scares you, how easily you answer.

“_Deal_.”

Sinking to your knees, you stare up at her. Calm and collected, the demon kneels, placing a delicate finger under your chin. For one brief moment, she is human. A lovely woman, nothing more. Leaning close, she brushes soft lips to yours, sealing the deal with a kiss.

Triumph is etched in her dark expression as she rises, drawing breath to speak -

The sharp crack of a gunshot rings the night.

It jerks her back and she glances down, startled. A blossom of red appears, bleeding fingers in the white cotton and her furious eyes look behind you.

“You asshole. I liked this dress,” she hisses.

“Like I care,” Bucky spits. Stumbling to your feet, you whirl to see him striding forward, smoking gun still raised. Steve stalks beside him, that sweet mouth twisted in a murderous sneer. Both are dressed for battle, blood-stained tac suits a remnant of whatever skirmish they abandoned to find you here. Even from a distance, an aura of darkness wafts off them in waves.

They part only when they reach you, each taking his place at your side. The move is unconscious, this synchronicity of protective love.

“I could _bury_ you,” the demon snaps. “Both of you.”

“Go on then. Try.” Steve says softly, unfamiliar violence in that familiar timbre. “You send us down? We’ll claw our way out and rip you apart.”

The mask falls and in the moonlight you see her clearly, right down to her rotten, soulless core. But then she smiles, sharp teeth glinting.

“No, that would be too easy. Why drag you home now, when you still have work to do? Enjoy the time together. I’ll see you soon enough.”

It’s soundless when she vanishes, the rotting scent of sulfur lingering on the breeze.

*****

“What the _fuck_ were you thinking?” Bucky snarls. His eyes never leave the road, the speedometer climbing higher and higher.

“I was trying to find a way to help,” you snap back. Glaring at the tense shoulders of both men in the front seat, you cross your arms, stuck in the backseat of the car like a child in timeout. Steve is clutching the dash so hard you hear the protesting whine of plastic splintering beneath his blood spattered fingers.

“Why would you - how did you even _find_ it?” he chokes. “Who told you how?”

Ignoring the question, you kick the seat in frustration.

“Explain to me why both of you can throw away your lives for me, but I can’t do the same? How is this any different?”

“Because you were DEAD!” Bucky shouts. “God dammit, you were _dead_. What were we supposed to do? We found a way to bring you back and that should’ve been it!”

“Nothing changes! I just found a way for us to stay together. After - whatever happens.”

“_No_,” Steve bellows. “You only follow us into the pit if you go off the rails, we’re not stupid. You get no chance to do _anything_ that jeopardizes who you are. Maybe we’ll burn for what we’ve done, we knew that when we made the deal. But not you. We won’t allow it.”

You’re terrified by his words. At the end of the line, you have to follow them. You _have_ to_._ After everything, they can’t take this away, this chance to protect them from whatever evil awaits. 

“Stop the car.”

Bucky hammers the pedal into the floorboards.

“Fuck no. We’re going home and you’re staying there. We’ll contact it again. Figure a way out.” Gripping the steering wheel, his knuckles are bone white.

“Stop the car, Bucky!”

“We’re _not_ _stopping_,” Steve shouts.

The speedometer is still climbing and in an act of desperation, reason evaporates. Bringing your knees to your chest, your boots plow through the side window, smashing the glass. Wind roars through the car and you cover your face and scream, bits of glass raining down.

“_Stop the fucking car now!_”

Bucky slams both feet on the brakes. The car fishtails across the deserted highway and you feel the bite of the seatbelt, before screeching to a stop. There is a twin whine of car doors when both men tumble from the car, but you’re right behind them, kicking free from the backseat and rolling onto the rough asphalt of a broken country highway.

There is no thought but escape. Bouncing to your feet, you take off running.

“Are you _insane_? Get back here!”

Whirling abruptly, your fists slam into the steel of two broad chests, as Steve and Bucky stagger to a stop. They stare at you, wild eyes terrified. 

“I know,” you croak. “What you’ve been doing out there. Hurting people instead of helping. Destroying the team. All the - the bad things you’ve done. I know. I _know_.”

Realization settles on their shoulders. Chests heaving against your trembling hands, they remain silent; no words will absolve their sins. They lean into your touch instead, held together by the strength they feel in you.

“It’s not what you think - ” Bucky finally starts and you choke on a hysterical laugh.

“No? So the two of you haven’t been out there hurting innocent people? You’re not throwing lives away as collateral damage? You _do_ still have your humanity? I didn’t get a thousand panicked messages from people asking what the _hell_ you two were doing?

At your anger, Bucky’s expression shutters. So you turn to Steve. In the dim light, he flinches under your glare and that’s all it takes. Because even now, even after every horrible thing he’s done, Steve Rogers cannot lie to you.

“Sweetheart, listen - “

“No. Tell me the truth.”

“Get back in the car, let’s go somewhere warm and we can -”

“No,” you whisper. “We stay here until I hear it all.”

Steve turns to Bucky and meets pleading blue eyes. Inside he aches, but they owe you this. He understands that now.

“It wasn’t like that,” Steve begins. “Not in the beginning.”

And so he talks. Opens the doors and lays their souls bare, dark with all the deeds that felt perfectly acceptable, until he was forced to recount them to you. As he talks, the weight of their actions pins him down and he feels the bile curdling in his belly.

But he pushes forward, finding unexpected relief as shares the suffocating burden of remembering. Steve talks until his voice grows hoarse and the eastern skyline begins to glow. As a blood-red sunrise spills over the white land, he breathes one final apology and hangs his head. Beside him, Bucky gazes bleakly into the distance. 

It is appalling, gruesome, terrifying.

And yet - it is still Bucky and Steve.

“So that’s it,” you murmur. “We go home. We go home and we keeping looking for a way out. There has to be a way, I’ll find it. I promise we - “

Three alarms pierce the air.

They shriek into the cold morning, simultaneously foreign and familiar. Three sets of shaking hands pull phones from the depths of tac suit pockets, revealing three flashing screens, pulsing purple light with the same message blazoned in bold letters.

> SOS. ALL ASSEMBLE.
> 
> 40.7336° N, 74.0027° W

Confused, you look up to see bewildered blue.

SOS.

All Assemble.

A call to arms - issued to _all three of you_.

“Shit,” Steve breathes.

This is _rare_. The last time SHIELD sent one of these, aliens were swarming through Barcelona and Western Europe was in chaos. This alarm is only issued for the worst of the worst, and if the Avengers are willingly asking Bucky and Steve for help, there must be a reason.

Bucky finds his voice first.

“No,” he says instantly. “No. No, no, no, _no_. We need to get you home, you can’t be anywhere near this. Especially now, if this - if the deal you made, what if it - what if this _turns_ \- no, you can’t, you can’t go.”

“I won’t go without both of you,” you growl. “Either we all go home, or we all go fight. There’s no other option.”

Bucky breathes hard, panicked at the unyielding steel in your eyes. The alarms keep shrieking, sending chills down your spine. Both of you turn to Steve, beseeching him to make the decision.

For one brief moment, Steve contemplates knocking you unconscious and dealing with the consequences later. He sees his idea mirrored in Bucky’s face and you wrench away from them both, crouching into a battle stance and raising your fists to fight.

“Don’t you _dare_.”

Shame hits him hard. As if they could ever hurt you, even like this.

“Fine,” Steve chokes out and Bucky sags, held together by rage and relief. “You’re right. We all go.”

Wordlessly, the three of you head back to the car, clambering into the front seat, squeezing in tight. Freezing air whips through the broken window as it speeds away, taking two super soldiers and the love of their life south. Back to New York City. Back to save the world.

Whatever that means. 

*****

Even from a distance, dark smoke chokes the Manhattan skyline. 

Civilians stream from the bowels of the city, swarming over the bridges as they run from the terror creeping through the streets.

Bucky navigates the crowd easily, laying on the horn and weaving through the flow. Beside him, you and Steve are wide-eyed and tense.

“What _are_ those?” Steve says, shaking his head. 

The creatures are tall and thin, mottled blue skin cracked and peeling, black tongues hissing. He grabs his gun and rolls down the window, climbing half-way out. Perching on the frame, he starts shooting as Bucky careens down rubble-strewn streets and with perfectly placed headshots, the creatures drop.

One headshot. Two. Three. Eight. Twelve. 

Dark orange liquid splatters across the hood of the car when an alien explodes above you and Bucky rolls down the window furiously.

“You _dicks_,” he yells and you grab the steering wheel in a panic when he grabs a pistol and follows Steve.

“Brakes, Bucky, _brakes_!”

There’s a screech of tires and and the car shudders to a stop. The doors fly open and the three of you emerge in the midst of a nightmare.

“We stay together,” Steve shouts and you nod agreement, cocking your gun.

It feels like no time at all has passed. The return to battle is like a dance, lethal moves hard-wired into your muscles. There has always been an unreal elegance to the way the three of you fight together, smoothly connected beats juxtaposed against the carnage you create.

Moving through the streets together, bullets and blades and a vibranium shield demolish everything in your path. Bucky and Steve are vicious as they fight, ripping bodies apart, blood gushing through their fingers. Following in their footsteps, you cut down one after another and every broken blue body makes you feel better. Stronger. Calmer. _Powerful_. 

“Just like old times, right?” Steve is laughing, Bucky is smiling, and excitement thrums through your veins. It feels right, it feels good, it -

Skidding around a corner, a bomb detonates the building above you.

And just like the night you died, your world is rent apart.

Falling to the ground, you tuck your into yourself as the memory of your first death echoes through your bones. It burns like a nightmare made real: fragments of remembered screams, Bucky and Steve and their fingers just out of reach, the feel of concrete crushing your bones. 

Caught up in the chaos, they keep running and surrounded by dust, you lose sight of them. 

“Wait! Come back, _please come back!_” Smoke fills your lungs and you cough until you retch. Crawling to shaking hands and knees, you bat helplessly at the air, trying to stand. “Bucky! Steve! _Please_!”

A gust of clean air blows through then, clearing the air and there is a brief respite. A moment of relief, because you are saved. Until you see it.

Two men stand near a black Impala. Your eye is drawn to the one in a leather jacket, his face scratched and dirty. It takes a beat to register, but then you see Dean Winchester raise an ivory handled Colt.

How the hell he manages to land two bullets in Steve Rogers chest, you’ll never know. They hit in quick succession, and even from a distance you hear Steve’s wet gasp, the gruesome sound of metal ripping through flesh. The shield drops from his hands, clattering on concrete.

It all seems to happen in slow motion.

The world silent, your broken heart the only sound thudding in your ears. Adrenaline pulses through you and you scramble to your feet. On your left, you see Bucky whirl at the sound, snapping the neck of the creature in his hands. He is screaming Steve’s name and he charges forward, forever drawn to the sound of Steve Rogers in pain.

_Run_, your heart screams. _Run._

Behind the Winchesters, a dark blue creature is galloping past and Sam Winchester turns, momentarily distracted. Dean shifts his gaze, Bucky’s head in his crosshairs. His finger hovers on the trigger, when a shot cracks and the gun flys from his hand.

“_Fuck_,” he hollers, cradling his arm against his chest. The bullet goes clean through his palm, leaving nothing but a ragged hole behind.

Bucky is crouched beside Steve, one hand trying desperately to stem the blood oozing from the holes in Steve’s chest, the other leveling his own gun at the Winchesters. At the sound of your shot, he turns.

Vengeful and holy, you stand with a smoking gun leveled at the Hunter who tried to end Steve’s life. Keeping one gun trained on Dean, another on Sam, you plant yourself in front of Bucky and Steve, arms spread wide to shield them from harm.

Just as they have _always_ done for you.

“Touch that trigger one more time, and I swear to god I will shoot you in the head.”

Rubbing sweat from his eyes, Dean stares in disbelief.

“What the hell are you doing? We know it didn’t work,” he grits out. “You just went back there and made another god damn deal with it! You didn’t fix anything! God dammit - this whole mess is our fault, just let us fix it. Once they’re gone, we’ll find a way to help you before it’s too late. It’s the right thing to do, you _know_ that.”

Instead of answering, you pull a trigger. The bullet shatters Sam’s collarbone.

“What the _fuck_!” Dean stumbles back, torn between running to his brother and finishing this job. “So this is it? Everything you said before, that was just a lie?”

“No,” you correct breathlessly. “No, I never lied. I said I would take care of them. That’s what I’m doing.”

There is no hint of tremble, when you raise your voice. 

“Buck, get him up. Stay behind me.”

Behind you, Bucky wraps a protective arm around Steve, lifting him gently to his feet. Half-conscious, Steve wraps an arm around Bucky’s shoulder, his head lolling to the side. The sound of Steve whimpering in pain has you seeing red. It takes every drop of self-control to keep yourself from burying a bullet in Dean Winchester’s brain.

That thought alone, it becomes an anchor. These may be the last dredges of your humanity that remain, so for now you cling tight to the precious moments that remain.

Bucky slams the car doors, shouting for you to hurry. Eyes locked on Dean, you shake your head, offering him the ghost of a smile.

“Don’t act surprised. They burned their world down for me, how would I ever do anything less?” Without breaking eye contact, your aim shifts to shoot out all four tires in the Impala. The hiss of air fills the air, whether from the deflating tires or Dean’s furious snarl, you’re unsure. Sliding into the front seat, Bucky guns the engine and tears off, clouds of dust in his wake. Behind you, the faint sound of Dean screaming is the last thing you hear.

_“They’ll be the death of you.”_

Staring forward, you grip the dash as Bucky careens down the rubble-strewn streets of Manhattan.

Maybe they will. But they are yours. Forever and always, and come what may, for as long as the world will allow.

*****

_ **EMAIL: ** [ **Natasha.Romanoff@avengers.com** ](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=mailto%3ANatasha.Romanoff%40avengers.com&t=MWQ3MzJmODY4ZDk2MjNkYjA0ZDAxYWJmZDRhODYyOTU0NjhmYmNmZSwwbG1ENXBwVA%3D%3D&b=t%3AB558yurmJfrJiryiO3asew&p=https%3A%2F%2Fbitsandbobsandstuff.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F633492867259744256%2Fnever-let-you-go-end&m=1&ts=1604165572) _

_Nat-_

_Your contract with he demon is terminated. Your soul is yours again. Take care of it this time._

_There’s no easy way to explain and I know you’ll be furious. I traded my humanity to get it back. I knew that bitch would never let them go, but I knew it might offer you as a trade. Please don’t be mad Nat. I had to try._

_I don’t want to hurt anyone. I’m taking them back to the house upstate, I’ll keep all three of us away from the world until I can wipe their souls clean. _ _I’m going to fix this. I promise._

_Keep everyone away until then. Please._

*****

** _SIX MONTHS LATER_ **

Bucky sits on the front steps of the porch, a coffee cup warming his hand. He brings it to his nose, inhaling the comforting smell.

All around the house, the quiet sounds of a summer morning come to life, trills of birdsong, the rustle of leaves, the gentle lap of waves along the lakeshore. Upstairs, he hears you singing in the shower, your voice warbling on the high notes.

Soft, peaceful. Bliss.

There is a thump when Steve flops beside him. He cups his chin in his palm, twisting the hem of his t-shirt in the other hand. Bucky lets him fidget for a minute, before he sighs.

“Spit it out, Rogers.”

Steve frowns.

“I, uh - I had a weird dream last night,” he says haltingly. “Some guy wearing a trench coat. Blue tie. He said he was watching. That he could help us. It felt…really real.”

Bucky turns to look at him. His expression is blank, but Steve recognizes the tone.

“Dark hair?”

“Yeah,” Steve answers. He feels peculiar, admitting it. Like he somehow shouldn’t.

Bucky just nods and turns his gaze back over the hills. He’s perfectly composed when he answers.

“I’ve had the same dream.”

Together, they watch the sun melt the morning fog. Long minutes pass before Steve speaks again and he sounds younger, more like that scrawny little punk from before the war.

“Buck, do you think - do you think when it happens, we can stay together? Wherever we go, we can stay with each other?”

Bucky says nothing. His right hand shifts closer, until his fingers brush Steve’s and their pinkies link together. The thought still seems beyond comprehension, this far away concept of brimstone and fire, but there’s no point dwelling on the future. When Death arrives, they’ll face it the same way they’ve faced everything in this long life - together. Bucky knows that fact, irrefutable, immutable, unalterable.

“Yeah,” Bucky says quietly. “Of course we’ll stay together. I’ll make sure of it Stevie.”

They sit in contemplative silence, each wrestling with their thoughts. When Bucky bows his head, Steve nudges his shoulder.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I just - ” he looks up at Steve, his expression raw. “Was it selfish? For us to bring her back?”

Steve shrugs, looking down at his hands, all bitten nails and hard callouses. He thinks about Bucky sobbing in the middle of the night, about the sick taste of grief every morning, about the empty shells they became when you were gone.

It _was_ selfish.

But -

“No,” he answers softly. “It wasn’t selfish. It was self-preservation.”

Bucky smiles wistfully. There’s a religious sort of reverence when he contemplates your place in their world.

“I don’t regret any of it. I love her, Steve. She’s worth anything.”

“Yeah. So do I,” Steve whispers.

They sit quietly.

“Now what?” Bucky wonders.

It is the eternal question. Steve stares into the distance.

And then he smiles.

*****


End file.
